I Forgive You
by A Kugelschreiber
Summary: France never forgave England for what he did to his beloved Jeanne d'Arc and every year, when her death day comes around, it kills England to see France suffer in anguish.He can't help but feel suffocated by France's hatred towards him on that day every year. So he risks everything in one last chance to finally earn France's forgiveness- somethings he's been wanting for centuries.


**So I got the idea for this fic and I had to write it. Enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia **

England woke, startled by the deafening singing of _God Save the Queen_ emanating from the alarm clock on his bedside table. Groaning, he lifted his head and ruthlessly brought down his fist upon the resonating device a few times, instantly silencing it. _"The queen can be saved some other day", _he thought as he glanced at the date flashing on the screen of the digital clock.

May 30th.

Gulping, he laid his head back on the Union Jack pillow and stared at his bland, white ceiling. He shuddered as he recalled ancient memories that made him dread this day.

May 30. The anniversary of Joan of Arc's execution.

Sitting up in his bed and clearing his head of morning nausea, England let out an audible sigh as he hugged his knees together and pulled them towards his chest. It was odd how he out of all people felt miserable on this day. After all, the execution hadn't affected his country and people. It had hurt France's. And that was exactly the reason why he felt the urge to curl up into a ball under the covers and hibernate until the sun set and Big Ben chimed midnight, even if he was supposed to go to an important G8 meeting today.

He didn't want to get ready and dress in a suit and tie and enter the conference room and fight with America and Russia and China only to find the Frenchman wallowing in his chair, blue eyes looking as if they couldn't find the sun while they remained fixed on him. He didn't want to see France refuse his wine and endure his sorrow sober while he absentmindedly listened to what America had to say.

He didn't want France to look at him and forget that a word such as "forgive" existed. Because, deep down inside, England knew France had never truly forgiven him for what he had done to his beloved Joan of Arc.

England let out another long sigh until his lungs ran out of hair and swung his legs over the bedside. Hobbling over to his bathroom, he sleepily stripped himself of his pajamas and stepped into the shower, closing his eyes and absorbing every drop that rained down upon his face. Before he knew it, England found himself wondering what France was doing right now. Was he waking up to _La Marseilles_ with the name _Jeanne_ on his lips? Was he already kneeling in front of her statue and white flowers down in front of her feet? Was he gently kissing a cross and placing it around the marble's neck?

Was he standing in the shower, much like England, tears falling from his eyes as he lamented the loss of her life while he cursed the nation who had taken her from him?

Visions of the past visited England and he could see the scene almost as if it were yesterday. Joan of Arc, helplessly tied to a stake, her chin held high and her eyes full of patriotism as she looked at the battered and bruised France as he cried out her name in anguish. And then there was England, laughing at France's pitiful state as the flames burned higher and higher. Later, when the fire had been put out, England had the charred ashes raked back; forcing France to look upon the young girl's scarred body so he could acknowledge that she was most certainly dead.

Years after that, England gazed on as France declared Joan of Arc a martyr, later a saint, and slowly, the smugness England he had felt earlier had disappeared. He found himself unable to stand how France mourned her life every year for he had never seen his enemy so lost and broken inside every year on that day. But what really tore England apart was how France looked at him every May 30th.

Though he always seemed so playful towards him as the years passed by, England had figured out that not all of his friendliness was sincere. Because every time May 30th came around, England would find himself shivering under France's cold gaze, which harbored anything but friendship and love. And England realized that France had never forgiven him, nor did he have plans to in the future.

Clenching his teeth together, England slammed his fist against the shower wall as he let out a frustrated sigh. For centuries now, he had tried to ask for France's forgiveness. He had attempted to make him feel better by joking with him or even trying to cook for him. But he knew within himself that the wound he had made in France's heart ran too deep for any shallow tactic to cure and it tortured him.

Why couldn't he just get France to say those three words? Those three words that would release him from the torture of witnessing France suffer in silence every year. Why was it so hard?

"Dammit," England growled as turned off the shower head and wrapped himself with a soft, white towel.

He made his way to his closet and opened the door, robotically shifting through his articles of clothing. When he finally found a decent suit, he pulled it off the hangers with a violent jerk. The suit pulled free from the thicket of clothes and at the same time, an old, dusty looking book tumbled onto England's foot from the top shelf.

"Ow! Bullocks!" England exclaimed, almost ready to punch a hole in the wall.

Tossing his suit onto his bed, England ignored the pain in this big toe as he scooped up the ancient book. Curiously, he dusted the cover to find the words _Articles of Sorcery and Alchemy Volume XXXIV _engraved upon it in archaic calligraphy. That's when it hit him.

This was the year he was going to ask for France's forgiveness once and for all.

**!**

As America's cacophonous voice resounded throughout the conference room, England went on doodling detective caps, 007's and TARDIS's in his notebook. His billionth yawn escaped him as he attempted to drown out America's obnoxious talks of heroes and fast food but he didn't have enough margins left in his notebook to occupy himself with.

After his stick figure of Sherlock Holmes ended up with an uncharacteristically large head and bug eyes, England threw down his pen in frustration and leaned back in his leather seat. He then cautiously let his eyes wander over to France who sat just opposite to him.

The blond man had his head bowed over his notebook, his ball point pen in his left hand. Although it seemed as if he were taking notes, England knew the other much better than that. He figured France was absentmindedly drawing impressionist versions of the Battle of Orleans. The pen shifted to his right hand. Now, England guessed, France was drawing a portrait of someone. France always used his right hand, England had observed over the years, for details such as a person's face. The left hand was always reserved for more impressionist landscapes and vague beauty.

It stupefied England that he subconsciously knew so much about his adversary.

As he stared at the other's silky blonde locks and how the curled around France's elegant face, England couldn't help but notice how pale his skin had become. His brow seemed to be permanently furrowed in a way that was so unlike the Frenchman and his right hand was quivering ever so slightly as he scratched the pen along the paper's surface.

England gulped and patted his briefcase next to him, making sure it was still there. Why couldn't the meeting end already?

Wallowing in his impatience and self grumbling, England didn't realize that France was now staring back at him. Widening his eyes, England nearly jumped out of his seat as he shifted his gaze to the floor and shuddered as he could still feel France shooting daggers mixed with hatred and sorrow. The coldness in the depths of those two blue orbs was terrifying and was enough to make the former pirate sweat.

"_After the meeting,"_ he assured himself, patting the briefcase once more. _"After the meeting."_

When America finally decided he was exhausted from talking and Germany became weary of yelling at the top of his lungs, the meeting finally adjourned. When America called the dismissal, England practically leapt out of his seat, threw his weighty suitcase over his shoulder and tried to catch up with the already fleeting France.

As he pushed by the other countries, he heard America whisper to his fellow nations,

"Hey, am I the only one who noticed France didn't say a word during the entire meeting? I wonder if that guy's okay. Does he need a hamburger or something?"

"You stupid American," Russia whispered back, smiling gleefully as ever.

"Don't you know?" China explained. "Today is when that Joan of Arc lady died. Get your history together."

"_If only they knew," _England mused as he scrambled out the door and looked around for the blond Frenchman. He found him retreating down the far end of the hall.

"France!" he called out, though to no avail as France picked up his pace.

England sped down the hallway, his briefcase thumping against his hip painfully.

"FRANCE!" he yelled again, this time outstretching his arm and grabbing the Frenchman's elbow, jerking him backwards. "Wait up!"

France spun around to meet England face to face, his eyes burning like dying stars enveloped by dark circles. His voice was gruff.

"What do you want Angleterre?"

England struggled against France's painful gaze but did his best to hold his composure. He couldn't turn back now. He was going to do this, for better or for worse.

Still panting a bit, England relaxed his grip on France's elbow.

"I want to show you something."

France only blinked though his face clearly read that he was uninterested.

"Not today," he replied coldly and England could hear France was trying to choke back tears that had threatened to show from being so near England. "I have places to be. You of all people should know that."

England let his murky green eyes wander into France's fading blue ones.

"Please," he stressed, putting all of his urgency into that one word.

He felt France's muscles tense as he bit his fair lips.

"Fine."

The Englishman let out an inaudible sigh of relief, glad France was giving him this chance, and took his hand, leading him to the back entrance of the building.

Pushing open the door to outside, England shivered slightly as a soft evening breeze flew by. The sky was a deep red, as if a fire had lit it up. The alley in which they came out to was completely deserted and there was nothing in sight save for the massive golden circle painted on the ground, a star within it. France frowned.

"Angleterre, I do not have time for your silly magic tricks. I-"

"Just bear with me," England said before France could walk back in. He pulled out his ancient and dusty sorcery book, flipping to the page he had bookmarked earlier. He then turned to face France.

"Look," he started shakily. "I know that I'm probably the last person you'd want to see right now and I don't blame you. But please, hear me out. Or rather…"

England stood in front of the golden circle.

"…Hear Joan out."

Not pausing to see a quizzical expression spread across France's face, England immediately began chanting the recitation written upon the open page. His words grew more and more powerful with each one that rolled off his tongue and suddenly the wind started to whip around them wildly. Pages in the book fluttered and a taken aback France attempted to shield himself from the vicious gale as England now stared at the golden painted ground, firing off the incantation over and over again until he finally pointed at the glowing symbols and yelled,

"I SUMMON YOU, JOAN OF ARC, PATRON SAINT OF FRANCE!"

The wind began to settle as a silhouette rose from the center of the golden star. Climbing higher and higher into the red sky, England could make out the shape of a young girl with flowing tresses and beautiful eyes that displayed her ever immortal strength. She looked much like she did centuries ago when England had last seen her burning at stake. Still brimming with confidence and love for her country.

"Jeanne," he heard France whisper next to him as the blond man knelt in front of the ghostly figure, tears brimming his eyelids.

The ghostly Joan smiled with innocence.

"_Ma France,"_ she replied. _"Vous semblez très bien. Je suis très heureux pour vous. __"_

France smiled weakly. "Vous êtes plus belle que jamais."

Joan's smile only grew happier.

"_Ma France…"_

That was when England noticed France's shoulders heaving uncontrollably. The tears had begun to flow down the man's beautiful face as every sorrowful feeling he held inside was let loose.

"I-I am so sorry Jeanne. I'm so sorry I couldn't help you. You did so much for me and I let you be taken by the English and suffer such a horrible fate. You didn't deserve it after saving me from ruin and I-" he rambled sobbingly, until the ghost of Joan cut him off.

"_France, I did what I had to serve you and I do not regret it. Nor do I harbor awful feelings towards the English."_

England felt a shiver run down his spine as he felt Joan's silvery eyes upon him, entranced by the purity and sincerity they held. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but then closed it. It wasn't his place to speak.

"How?" France cried out in agony. "How can you not feel hatred for those who forced you into the fire?"

"_Because," _Joan's apparition soothed, _"they were only doing what any other nation would do. They were doing what you would have tried to have done if the positions were reversed. They were trying to win for their country. And there is nothing wrong with that. Ma France, forgive the fire that scorched my skin. Forgive the English for their sin. And most of all, let go of that hatred you harbor for the English nation. Because… I have already forgiven him."_

"BUT I CANNOT FORGIVE HIM!"

France's words stung England as if he had been pierced with a sword through his gut. The sheer anguish radiated through his words was enough to make England clench his teeth in utter remorse and weaken his knees. He knew it. He knew France would never be able to forgive him. Why had he ever tried?

"_Why France, when it is in your nature to forgive others?"_

"Because," the quivering nation whispered as he stood on his feet, "I'm not ready to forgive myself first."

England bit back the hot tears that had threatened to spill down his cheeks as France's vulnerable side was exposed. His chiseled face was marked by tears and bloodshot eyes dipped in ancient pain that hid in his heart for so long. This susceptible and exposed France made England want to take the other nation in his arms and tell him that he was so so sorry and that the Frenchman didn't have to forgive him as long as he could find it in his willpower to forgive himself.

"_France,"_ Joan crooned softly, like a mother to a child, as she lowered herself down to meet his eyes and placed a ghostly hand upon his tear-tainted cheek. _"There was nothing more you could do. I died because I had to. It was written in the stars. And if I hadn't given my life your people would have had no motivation to lay down theirs in loyalty to you. So please. Find it in your heart to forgive yourself. For me. And then…"_

She looked over at a tearing up England, and France did the same.

"_Embrace England as your friend. As I have already done."_

The beautiful silhouette of Joan of Arc shimmered as it began to fade away into the red sky and she smiled graciously at England.

"_Thank you for bringing me here,"_ Joan murmured gently.

England found himself smiling widely with elation as her form began to dwindle. She turned back to a weeping France.

"_Au revoir ma France."_

"A-au r-revoir," France choked as he quickly wiped his tears from his face and gave the fading Joan the most loving smile England had ever seen France give someone. He felt his heartbeat quicken.

And with that, the unnatural wind died down completely. The golden circle and star faded to nothing as the free spirit of Joan of Arc was carried into the wind.

For a moment, the two nations remained silent and none of them moved from their position of looking up at the sky. Finally, England managed to build the courage to speak.

"Er, France, I-"

Before he could venture any further with his words, he was pulled into a warm and desperate hug by France. England could feel the other man still shaking, but he was now more relaxed and his tears had stopped falling. Realizing France still wanted some silence, he placed his arms around France, making him feel comfortable and warm. Somehow, this wasn't really awkward. It was almost as if it were natural. Something they should have done long ago.

England could feel France's cool breath on his neck and he shivered at how his golden locks brushed his shoulder ever so slightly like feathers. Why he spent so much time hating this man, England didn't know. However, he was still waiting to hear those three words. The three words that would free him and France. And he wasn't sure bringing Joan in front of France was enough or not.

Finally, France lifted his head from England's shoulder, though he didn't bother shrugging out of the other's embrace. They were seeing eye to eye and England observed that the tension and anguish that France's blue orbs had been drowning in had faded. Instead, there was a new feeling of graciousness and something else England couldn't detect.

"Angleterre," France murmured ever so softly, his pale lips barely moving and England didn't dare to leave his gaze. "Merci. Thank you so much for letting me see her one last time."

England let a small smile rise to his lips.

"You needed it France. Couldn't have you sodding off every year like this could we now," he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

France let a similar smile form on his face and England could tell he was slightly amused. Then the Frenchman lifted a slender hand to England's cheek, brushing it gently with his finger tips.

"And… I forgive you."

Any tears England had been trying to hold back all spilled down his cheeks at once as France spoke those three words. _I forgive you. _The three words that he had been yearning for centuries. He could feel the shackles that bound his guilty heart break open and fall away as he quickly tried to wipe his eyes, though he couldn't match his tears' pace.

"Ah! Angleterre! You're crying?" France questioned, aiding England in wiping his tears.

"Y-you frog. D-d-don't you kn-know how long I-I've been waiting for y-you to s-say that?"England blubbered, emphasizing each word with a thump on France's chest with his fists. "S-so f-fucking long."

France chuckled as his golden locks flew in the now chilly breeze and he leaned in to press butterfly kisses all around England's face and his eyelids.

"Je suis desolee," he crooned softly, his gorgeous blue eyes reflecting England's pain. "I'm so sorry I didn't have the strength to say it earlier."

"Frog," England muttered as he pulled France's face towards him, pressing his chapped lips onto France's soft, pillow like ones.

And there they stood in each other's embrace, forgetting that they were supposed to be enemies and the sins each had committed, forgiving and letting out their heart of ancient feelings.

Floating above in the gray heavens, the beautiful martyr Joan of Arc looked upon the two nations, one her home and the other the one that scarred her permanently. And she couldn't help but smile with elation as she witnessed the cordial embrace.

"_I am so proud of you ma France."_

_Translations:_

_Vous semblez tres bien. Je suis heureux pour vous = you look well. I am very happy for you _

_Vous eyes plus belle que jamais = you look as beautiful as ever. _

_Je suis desolee= I am sorry. _

_So... Review? Xx _


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